


The Good Bird

by SoulfireInc



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: BTHB, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, I PROMISE I DON'T KILL HER IN THIS ONE, Malcolm Whump, Sunshine POV, Sunshine is a good birb, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfireInc/pseuds/SoulfireInc
Summary: When her boy comes home, Sunshine notices something is very, very wrong.Bad Things Happen Bingo: Bleeding Out.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Sunshine the Bird
Comments: 44
Kudos: 181





	The Good Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).



Sunshine bent her head and preened. It was Warm Light, when the Bright shone right onto her cage and the warmth was like her boy’s hands around her. She ruffled her feathers and settled in for a snooze.

She woke when she woke, long after Warm Light. It was Cool now, the Bright hiding beyond the barrier she’d flown into once. She fluttered over to her water and nipped some up, flicking it onto her feathers to freshen herself after her nap. Then it was time to sing.

There were few things as wonderful as singing. Sunshine felt it in her feathers, deep in her bones, from the tip of her beak to the end of each tiny talon. Singing was _right._ Singing was being a bird. It connected her to her parents and nestmate, no matter how far from them she was. It rose a Bright inside her chest and it shone through her, out into her nest, out through the cold sticks and into the world. And it made her boy make that face that she loved, that face when he snarled but it wasn’t a snarl and she felt like he had a little Bright of his own that was reaching out to her. And he would open her nest and bring her onto his featherless scritcher and they would be together, joined by song and the love that fuelled it.

She spent her day as she usually did. Waiting for her boy, singing, twittering to herself, preening. Drinking. Eating. Snoozing a little more.

It was Dark when her boy came back. She tweeted a happy hello, but he didn’t even look at her as he came by. That was odd. He loved her. Loved chirruping at her in his nonsensical way, making his own little songs with meaning Sunshine could feel more than hear.

She danced to the edge of her perch, watching him, head tilted. He looked different. His change-feathers were ruffled and in dire need of preening, bright with red water that smelled sharp and dangerous. Sunshine hooted uneasily, asking if he was alright. He ignored her, bumbling over to the sometimes-waterfall and unleashing the flow, splashing the water on his head where some of the red water clung.

She watched him rip his change-feathers off and whistled in alarm at the amount of red water on his belly. He had no real feathers to protect him and his under-feathers was broken. Ripped. This was not good, not good at all. Her boy shouldn’t look like that. Shouldn’t _smell_ like that, like ... like not-breath.

Sunshine twittered furiously, trying to bring him over so she could help, but he wasn’t listening, was busy wrapping white around the red but the red was too strong, it was eating the white away and he didn’t look right, he wasn’t meant to be that white himself, that grey. He moved over to the smooth perch but collapsed at its back and Sunshine cried out, flapping her wings in alarm.

“It’s okay, Sunshine,” he twittered quietly and Sunshine hooted frantically. His voice was wrong. “I’ll be alright.” The notes were squished into each other, lacking their usual entrancing clarity.

Something was very wrong. Red dripped around him, making a puddle like her water bowl. His breathing was loud at first, but as Sunshine watched it grew fainter, slower. Those eyes she so loved were sliding closed.

Sunshine hopped to the cold sticks that were the nest-hatch and pecked at it, chewing it and wiggling her head to try and open it. Her boy needed her. She needed to be _out._

A thudding startled her back to her perch. Another voice, this one lower, older, warbled into the world.

“Bright? Kid, you there?”

Sunshine hooted, looking from the world-hatch to her boy. His face twitched, the not-feathers over his eyes bunching.

“Come on, kid. I know today was rough.” The voice was familiar. It was the old one who loved her boy. He was good. He would help. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said. I know you’re good at what you do and I know why you take the risks you do. Just ... please, kid. Let me in. Let’s talk.”

There was so much red. It was trying to swallow up her boy. But the old one could help. He was kind. He’d given her treats, stroked her back and chest. Even if he smelled of cat, he was friend.

Sunshine hopped from one end of the perch to the other, thinking hard. If the old one went away then her boy would become not-breath. She couldn’t lose her boy. He was too precious. And not just because he had the food. But, he did have the food.

She stood tall on her toes and took a deep breath, puffed up her feathers and _sang_. She sang of the danger of the red water and the paleness of her boy’s under-feathers and the growing pool of not-breath leaking from him. She sang their need for the old one’s help, lilting in urgency, adding short, sharp notes so there would be no confusion because the featherless were awfully slow.

“Kid? You alright in there?”

She sang with all she had, pausing only to wet her throat.

“Kid, come on. You don’t have to let me in, just say something so I know you’re alive.”

The old one’s tone was lower but Sunshine didn’t feel he understood. Not yet. She sang harder, higher, trilling for all she was worth.

“Kid, open the door. Now.”

Her fear had spread to the old one but she didn’t stop singing. Her boy had fallen to the side and there was far too much red now, so, so much red.

“Kid! Open the door!”

Sunshine flapped her wings, half-flying around her nest, rattling the cold sticks with her flight feathers and singing even louder, willing her inner Bright to shine so strong the old one would see it through the world-hatch.

It burst open and Sunshine flapped in alarm, heart racing furiously as tiny sticks went flying, only to fall to the ground because they had no wings. The old one stepped in and saw her boy.

“Bright! Jesus, what happened?”

He ran to her boy, pulled him up so he was perched properly. He didn’t open his eyes. The old one put a rectangle to his hearer and spoke with authority, commanding something Sunshine didn’t understand. He put the rectangle away and pushed his scritchers into the heart of the red water. Sunshine twittered, distressed, flapping wildly. He was hurting her boy! He was making that low, sad tune he made during his snoozes, before he’d wake up so loudly he’d frighten her. He was in pain! She flew back to the nest-hatch and bit it, shook it, willed it to open.

It didn’t.

She fluttered to her perch and watched the old one hurt her boy. He was singing softly to him, and Sunshine stopped to listen. His voice was ... gentle. Encouraging. Kind. Then Sunshine understood. He was _stopping_ the red water from coming out, trying to keep it inside where it belonged. Relief almost took her from her perch but she clung on, hopping to the side to see better.

Her boy raised his head weakly. Muttered something so low it was barely a song. The old one sang back to him, putting a featherless wing to her boy’s face for a moment, making that snarl-face that was friendly.

Her boy wasn’t awake when the other featherless arrived. They had a perch for her boy and put him on it, with more white to press into the red. They even strapped something around his not-beak. Sunshine didn’t know what it was but their tone made her think it would help.

Then they _took him away._ She twittered madly, ordering them to stay, but they didn’t even look at her. The old one did though. He stopped by her nest on his way by. Poked a scritcher through the cold sticks. Sunshine glared at it, feeling betrayed.

“Good bird, Sunshine. Thank you.”

His tone was grateful, so she gave a dignified hoot. He withdrew his scritcher and followed her boy out the world-hatch. Sunshine was left alone, in a world that smelt of not-breath. It was frightening.

So she sang. Snoozed. Nibbled. Sang.

It wasn’t until the next Bright that the world-hatch opened. The nice girl came in. Sunshine’s water _and_ food bowl were both empty, so she filled them. She left the nest-hatch open and Sunshine took to the air, desperate to stretch her wings properly. She flew straight to the barrier and landed on the perch by its base, searching the Out for her boy. She didn’t see him.

The nice girl was cleaning the red water away, even erasing the smell with something that was far worse but that Sunshine knew wouldn’t last. When she was done she sat near the sometimes-waterfall, her head in her scritcher. Sunshine flew to her and chirruped consolingly. The nice girl loved her boy, too.

The nice girl extended a scritcher and Sunshine leaned into the contact, feeling her inner Bright stir for the first time since before last Dark.

“You did good, Sunshine,” the nice girl sang softly. Sunshine tweeted sweetly, thanking her for getting rid of all the awful red. “He’s gonna be okay. You saved him, little thing.”

The nice girl bent down and Sunshine started but let her press her squishy not-beak into her head in that nice way her boy sometimes did.

“Thank you, beautiful girl.”

Sunshine felt better. She knew if her boy was not-breath the nice girl wouldn’t sound so happy, so hopeful. So he must be okay. Sometimes he stayed away for Brights and Brights but he always came back. Sometimes even smelling of red water. She snuggled into the nice girl’s scritcher, singing a soft, quiet song of loneliness and fear and hope and relief.

Her boy would be okay. And when he came back, she would sing for him.

Her boy loved it when she sang.


End file.
